


Urgent Care

by birdbrains



Category: Original Work
Genre: Disability, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9831809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdbrains/pseuds/birdbrains
Summary: These are some original (chaste, dreamy, disability heavy) d/s stories. Most of them are intentionally written without references to gender or bodies. I have a disorganized backlog of them in my computer and I can dig more up if there's popular demand.





	1. School Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm still working on both my Stucky series by the way--just going slow and wanted to entertain myself by posting something else.)
> 
> The first 3 stories were supposed to be part of an art project I was going to make in 2012, and the specifics of the project might explain the journal-y tone and the intentional ambiguity of the characters' gender/bodies, but it's too pretentious for me to describe in detail.

I have this fantasy where I’m in boarding school, I guess I’m seventeen or eighteen years old.If it creeps you out to think about being a teenager or getting fucked by one, just pretend we’re teenagers on TV being played by 25-year-old actors.We can even be thirty.

I tell you I’ve always wanted to whip you.No, something else.This fantasy started out as a dream and there was something really specific about what I wanted to do to you.When I started telling you about it, it was like you already had it memorized, like it was from a book or there was just something old school about it.

But all I remember is I wanted to take you to my dorm room and take your clothes off and have you kneel on my bed--not resting on your knees, but raised up on them, your back and shoulders straight.I’d take off my belt and start whipping you with it, and pretty soon, I guess, you’d slump forward.I’d tell you to kneel back up.You’d do it, for as long as you could, until you fell forward again.

Then I’d tell you to support yourself with your hands, on your hands and knees, and thrust yourself up at me.I’d like that, so I could hit you lower on the backs of your thighs.Sometimes you’d just collapse onto the bed, and when that happened I’d tell you to get yourself together, push yourself back up for me.When you’d been so good I could hardly stand it anymore, I’d get my cane.I’d start using that on you, and it would be harder than the belt, and after everything I’d put you through you just wouldn’t be able to hold yourself up anymore and no matter how hard you tried you would end up on your stomach.Even trying to move the muscles in the back of your legs would hurt.That’s when it would be finished.I’d time how long it took for you to get to this point, and I’d give you a grade based on how long you lasted.

***

You came to this school when you were fifteen, but I’d been here since I was much younger and so had most of us.You made friends, but there were always things you didn’t understand--areas of campus you didn’t know how to get to, abandoned buildings you didn’t know the former purpose of.Nicknames.Slang--just stuff that, no matter how many people you asked, you could never fully understand.

And I was basically on the level of a slang term.I’m seen with people, but I don’t have the same kind of friendships you have.I don’t talk very much, but people listen to the things I say.It’s like I have some connection, like I’m related to all of them, and that keeps them from looking through me because I’m quiet.Or like something happened before you got here, but you can’t imagine what it would have been.

And there’s the cane.It seems rude to ask, but you can never tell if I need the cane or not.Is it a joke?Some kind of therapeutic thing where I don’t actually need it to walk, but it helps me walk with better balance?Because I play sports, and I leave the cane on the sidelines.And sometimes I don’t even walk with it, I just hold it by my side while I walk, and in class I hold it in my lap and fidget with it and they hardly ever tell me to stop because I’ve been here so long.

You are a little shy, the first person you ever kissed broke up with you last month, and you’ve been drunkenly wandering dangerously close to staff on more nights than you want to remember.If you ever expected me to make overtures, this is not the time when you would count yourself likely to receive them.My coldness is part of your history.It’s like the big rock in front of the science building suddenly standing up and turning around.

***

I lay it on the line--at least that’s what I tell you.I don’t tell you whether I’ve done this before, but like I said, it feels somehow obvious.You know how my sentences are going to end.

I’m more friendly than you expected me to be--not very, but I don’t say anything like, this is a one-time offer.I tell you I like your body.You ask me how I know that, and I remind you one of the locker rooms has a window--you know, behind the row of trees on the side of the gym.Around the time you first came to school, you weren’t very careful when you changed in there, and you were broadcasting yourself for me to see.Or really anyone who took the initiative of sneaking in between the trees and hiding in there.But mostly me, because who but me would keep track for years?

So I don’t tell you it’s a one-time offer.I tell you I’ve had you on my mind for a long time, no pressure, but any time you want, just come up to my room for your beating.I approached you after dinner, when it was more or less still light out, but we’ve been sitting on the steps of the cafeteria for a long time.You don’t say anything, but I see you dart a quick look at my cane.

I ask if you’d like to hold it.

You would like that, wouldn’t you?

You hold it in your lap.It’s dark and shiny, kind of worn away at the top from the pressure of my fingers, the constant fidgeting.

It hurts, I tell you.It won’t feel good.

You ask how long it will hurt for, how long the bruises will last, and I tell you that depends on how much you can take.I tell you I don’t expect you to be able to take much at first, but I bet you’re a quick learner.

You feel lonely.And like I said, it’s completely surreal for me to be talking to you with any interest at all.You look down at the cane, and the fact that you have seen it for years but never touched it makes it have the same poignant quality as the bus that drove by your house every day when you were little.You touch it.You want to earn the right for it to hit you, hard.

You raise your eyes to mine.It’s pretty dark now but you think you can make out that I don’t look nervous or eager, just mildly curious.Your hands are shaking, but only the way your hands always shake.

You don’t know why, but you raise the cane to your face.I’m still watching you.You press the handle against your cheek, your mouth.Suddenly you don’t want to look in my eyes anymore, but you kiss the cane.


	2. Toothpaste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notes: dubcon/the use of force, discipline, sensory issues

You are my gift horse but I look you in the mouth all the time.On the day you gave yourself to me I forced your mouth open and held your face up under a lamp.“Your teeth are disgusting,” I said.“I can’t imagine how a person could even make their teeth look as awful as yours.”

You told me that you brush your teeth more often than not, and I told you that was hard to believe.In the bathroom, I had you show me how you do it, and you had barely started when I took hold of your arm and said, “Okay.This isn’t working.Didn’t you know that your longevity is more or less based on your teeth?This is basically the equivalent of smoking and eating a party size bag of Doritos at every meal.”

I pointed out that first of all you were barely putting any toothpaste on your toothbrush.You said that you didn’t like the way it tasted, so I squeezed out a lump of toothpaste onto my finger and put it in your mouth.You’re getting very good at letting me put things in your mouth.

“Swallow it down,” I said.You obeyed me with a weird prickly look in your eyes.“Here’s the other thing,” I said.“This is an electric toothbrush, but you haven’t turned it on.”I pressed the switch and you jumped back as the toothbrush’s buzzing started.I had already told you that moving away from me is not allowed, so I smacked you with the toothbrush.It wasn’t the most effective weapon but it got the point across.

“I’m scared of it,” you said.

“It’s a toothbrush.”

“The noise freaks me out.I don’t like vibration in my mouth like that.”But even as you were saying this I knew you were preparing for it to happen, at least once.I’m really predictable.

I asked you to get on your knees. I held the toothbrush at my waist level with one hand, and your hair with the other.I pulled your head back and inserted the toothbrush in your mouth.I told you that you would brush your teeth for at least two minutes, morning and night, but I was going to do it for five minutes just to give you a head start.A minute or two in you started making this whining noise in the back of your throat, and I jerked your head back as hard as I could.You started crying.“See,” I said, “when you get to brush your teeth standing up, with no one pulling your hair, you’ll like it better.”

***

You still don’t turn it on though, and it drives me crazy.To be honest, I know you try--you do it sometimes--but at least a quarter of the time I can just tell you’re waiting for me to go somewhere else in the house so you can brush your teeth with the toothbrush turned off.Sometimes I catch you, sometimes I don’t.

I’m not a big fan of spanking, it seems boring and strangely ubiquitous, but I’m all right with it as a punishment for not turning on the toothbrush.It is always something I become aware of quickly, while I’m walking by the bathroom.There you are, and while I guess you could pretend you just finished brushing your teeth and that’s why it’s turned off, you and I both know you’re not a good liar.

So I process it and a second later I have you against the bathroom wall with your pants down.I try to wear rings so it will hurt a little more, but basically what I like about this is just the quickness.I catch you and then, before you get a chance to say or do anything, you’re being punished.

When I punish you in bigger ways, for bigger things, sometimes I say it hurts me more than it hurts you.But I’m absolutely sure that the toothbrushing stuff hurts you more.Of course I’d like you to have nicer teeth, but basically I just want to show you I own you and if I’m honest there are few things I love more than the split second when I judge you worthy of punishment and start carrying it out.But you don’t love it back.It doesn’t ruin your day, unless your day was already well on its way to being ruined, but you don’t look me in the eye as you pull your pants up and start brushing your teeth, properly this time.I think it hurts you how hard it is to do what I say.

***

I’m doing dishes, or something.We’re both drunk and not from anything good and I’m thinking it is more or less time for me to end up in bed, wedged in next to your endless squirminess, which will hopefully be tranquilized a little tonight.You went up a minute ago but I just feel like I should finish another plate and I am staring at it with vision I don’t know how to apply properly when I hear you coming back down the stairs.

You say my name and you’re standing there in your t-shirt looking, like me, a little baffled.But also, in your case, a little scared--and more than scared, a little sad.I turn the water off.

“I brushed my teeth with the toothbrush off,” you tell me.I’m not exactly surprised.I am surprised you told me, and by the way you’re standing there.You have your thumbs hooked into the sides of your underwear.You’re waiting to be told to pull it down.

I want to say, come on, it’s just a spanking.I do worse to you, sometimes at your own request.But there’s no way I can imagine turning you around against the kitchen counter now.I go over to you, put my hands over your hands, take them away from your waist.“Let’s go upstairs,” I say.

“To brush my teeth again?”

“Do you want to brush your teeth again?”

“Yeah.”

I put my arm around your waist, since neither of us is likely to be great on our feet, and we start up the stairs.“Thank you for telling me,” I say, and then, not filtering well, “I’m so proud of you.I’m so lucky.”

You start breathing funny and I crush you as hard against me as I can before we start walking again.When we get to the hallway, you stop walking before we reach the bathroom door.

“What is it?”

“I...I can’t do it.”

“Sure you can.”

“Can it be like the first time?”

“With the toothbrush off? No.”

“No,” you say, “I mean like the very first time, with me on my knees, where you’re holding the toothbrush.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, although I don’t really get it.

You go into the bathroom and kneel down and wait for me to get your toothpaste on the brush.You say, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no big deal, really.”

“I can’t do it though.It’s such a stupid little thing, but I hate the toothbrush.If you only knew how often you don’t catch me.I can’t stand it.”

“You want me to brush your teeth every day?”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

I should have done it before, I think.“We’ll plan when you’re going to brush your teeth.I’ll either watch you or actually do it myself, on days when you need that.”

“That’s not necessary.I should be able to do what you say without help.”

“You tried for a long time.Let me help you now.Okay?”I put my hand in your hair, pull your head back gently so you have to look me in the eye.“You’ll do this for me.Let me make sure you obey me.”

I let go of your hair and you start pushing your face into my leg, rubbing against me.I pick up the toothbrush, grab your hair again, and jerk your head back.When I turn on the toothbrush you flinch so hard it breaks my heart, but you stay where you are.“So proud of you,” I say and you open your mouth.


	3. Fluff for a certain value of fluff

You want to be on the side of the bed facing the wall, so no one can come in and hurt you, so if you get scared you know I'm always between you and the door. It's stupid. You always want me to reach out and pull on, you want to pull my arm around you sometimes so I'll hold you safe and tight.

You are a mess. I love you.

One night, after a day when you came home hurt, I hold you and feel your body turn into almost nothing, the loosening of all your muscles into mine.My arm is around your front with my hand coming up over your chest, and you crane your chin down to lick my hand.

"Hey," I say. "Would you let me break your fingers?"

You press yourself back further into me. You raise your left arm as well as you can with me holding you tight, so you can put your hand back and offer your fingers to me.

"Would you let me break your legs?"

"Yes, please."

"You're so stupid."

"Yes, please." You lick my hand again.

"Stupid shit. You'd do pretty much anything just to belong to someone, right? To have someone love you and take care of you and stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Yes, please, you mean. You'd give up all your dignity, right? Any horrible thing I could possibly do to you or make you do--you'd just swallow it and say, okay, as long as you get to belong to someone and get looked after? As long as you're mine?"

"Of course I would. I mean, yes please."

"Of course, that's what makes you especially stupid, because I tricked you. I'd do it anyway."


	4. Of Mice and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con warning for this chapter.
> 
> As you might notice, this is my attempt to write a porn version of Of Mice and Men. It's, um--it is what it is. I'm disabled and I'm just trying to get some mileage out of the shit sandwich pop culture has made of my sexuality.
> 
> It's satire, I guess?

I’m just a sad, hapless, compliant little disabled girl in the 1940s or whatever. But I’m pretty strong due to having to do manual labor all my life. And I have one passion: this girl who feels sorry for me and lets me touch her hair. Since I’m just a brutish sensory creature, I LOVE her hair. I love just stroking it and petting it and I also love when she teaches me how to brush and braid her hair. And she kind of likes it too–it makes her feel special. And of course, I’m harmless. I don’t know about violence or sex or anything! Look at me–the lights are on but nobody’s home. It’s innocent. Everything I do is innocent.

I start making her sit still for hours so that I can feel her. It’s not just her hair anymore–I put my fingers in her mouth, feel her teeth, press down on her tongue. I count her ribs, or if I can’t count her ribs, I notice that too. I put my fingers behind her knees and that makes her fidget. I put my tongue in her ear. I’m just curious. It’s innocent. I’m innocent.

I’m pushing her skirt up, pushing her legs apart, and that’s fine, I don’t know any better, I just want to know if she’s the same as I am down there, if she reacts like I would react. I’m holding her down, my mouth on her neck–I’m drawing blood, I don’t know my own strength–and I’m touching her just like, simple creature that I am, I could get lost in staring at a rock or a blade of grass. And she lets me because–well, I don’t count, right? And it feels good. I love that, the way it’s like a game but easier because I could never learn to play most games, I got laughed out of the room. I get what I want, when I touch her. I win. She is lovely and ruffled, her neck bleeding a little, her underwear soaked. When I ask if I can keep it she laughs and lets me.

Over time I keep going and I just get more and more curious. And I just see her as a game, like some of the games I have broken before–throwing chess pieces against the wall when they confused me, stomping on jacks, twisting puzzle pieces because I couldn’t figure out how to make them fit. I put things in her I shouldn’t, things that are too big and hard, that hurt her, that make her bleed. I don’t know any better. I bite her, curious. I force my fingers to the back of her throat.

She tries to stop me after a certain point, but I just don’t know any better; I don’t understand the word no. She’s my toy, she’s mine to play with–she can’t just take my fun away, when I’ve already learned so many interesting things to do with her.

When it comes down to it, it turns out I do know my own strength, because I never hurt her badly. But I hold her down.


	5. Sid Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: kidnapping, rape, Stockholm/Lima. I've also been told this is unintentionally funny.
> 
> Lots of love to my two (2) subscribers!

So I’ve had you for a few days and you’re sort of out of it, partly because of how things are going but also because I haven’t really given you much of anything to eat. You spend a lot of time sleeping or staring into space but, whenever I come near you, you struggle and make as much noise as you can even after I tape your mouth. So on the third day I’m doing something to you–-fucking you or burning you or something, I don’t really care as long as it hurts-–and you keep struggling and making these terrible noises which really starts to get on my nerves.

So I stop what I’m doing and give you sort of a pep talk. “Look, you really might as well be quiet and take it. This isn’t the worst thing that could happen to someone like you.” You’re looking at me like you hate me and I say, “You know, I don’t think I ever caught your name. What is it?”

I peel some of the tape off your mouth and you say, “My name’s Sid,” in this voice that’s trying to sound angry but you haven’t spoken in days and it just comes out sort of froggy and fragile and soft. You don’t try to keep talking; you know I’ll just press the tape back down.

“Well, okay Sid. Here’s the thing. You ran away to another country where you didn’t know anyone, which seems to indicate that you don’t have much going for you. Which, anyway, anyone could tell by looking at you, right? There’s also the fact that no one has even tried to find you. You know what usually happens when someone disappears? They’re on TV and in newspapers. There’s posters of them. I looked at missing person websites for here and where you’re from, and no one even knows you’re gone, Sid. No one’s looking for you.”

Your eyes don’t look as fierce now; more calm and curious. Old news.

“I really don’t think you’d be doing anything so great and important if I hadn’t locked you up here and made you my own personal chew toy. You’d probably have thrown yourself off an overpass by now. You’ve got crazy eyes, you know that?” I tap you on the side of the head, and you don’t move. “People like you shouldn’t be out anyway, yeah? Who knows what scrapes you would have gotten into.” You close your eyes, but I’ve already seen you pass out and I know that’s not what’s happening now. You’re listening. “Plus you’re a slut.”

Your eyes open in surprise. You know you’re crazy, apparently, but you don’t think you’re a slut.

“Of course you are. You think I didn’t notice you were hard yesterday? Yeah, okay, reaction to stress or whatever. Maybe you’re getting a boner thinking of all the food you’re going to have when you escape. Except I fucking knew, Sid, from the moment we started talking. The way you looked at me, the way you talked to me when I was bringing you back to my house? Even when you thought I meant well, you expected to have to fuck me. Oh, I know.”

I put my hand in your hair and, again, you don’t flinch, although you have been flinching and fighting me for the three days I’ve had you tied up for me. Your hair’s really dirty-–I try to decide if I want to bother trying to shower you, or if I’ll just leave you this way, let you get filthier and filthier. I stroke your hair, smooth it against your head, keep talking.

“See, Sid, I think you’re the kind of boy who’s got nothing going for him except sometimes, when you’re not feeling too sad, you can get it up. And when you’re too sad for that, you can lie still and take it from someone else, or use your mouth or your hands to get someone off. I think letting people use you for sex is all you’ve ever been good for-–isn’t that true? I think I’m right, Sid. I’m almost never wrong about people. Am I wrong about you?”

We look at each other steadily. I haven’t pressed the tape back onto your mouth, because I’ve known I’m going to ask you this question. And I wait for you to talk, but you don’t say anything.

“Sid, answer me. I’m right, aren’t I? You’ve got nothing.”

I’ve got my hand on your mouth, waiting to stick the tape back down after you answer, and you lean forward and press your mouth on my hand, sticking the tape back down across your mouth. I can tell you think I’m right-–you just don’t even want to talk now, maybe ever. Maybe I’ve got you where I want you even faster than I thought I would.

“I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime, Sid. You’re going to be my whore. I’m going to use you every way I can think of, and you’re going to make me really happy. I’m going to have a great life now that I have this kid in my closet who I can kick whenever I want. Sort out all my bad moods, try out all my sick fantasies on someone who’s never going to complain. And I’ll tell you something, Sid–-you’re going to do a great job. You’re going to be one of the only people in the world who spends his whole life doing something he’s incredibly well suited for. So stop fighting me, and be grateful for the gift I’m giving you.”

I look at you expectantly, and you nod, and I start hurting you again. It’s different this time. This time, as soon as I touch you, you go limp. It’s like touching a rag doll, and I have to admit I love the feeling. Especially when I start hurting you even rougher than I have been, and tears start welling up in your eyes but you don’t make a sound–-your eyes are just fixed on me, with this tortured but somehow loving intensity, as they fill up with tears. By the time I’m done, your face is all blotchy and wet and I figure I don’t need to shower you for a while longer. You’ve had enough water for one day.

To reward you for knowing your place, I go out and buy you a sandwich–-egg salad, the same kind you were eating when we met. Once I bring it back to you, I take the tape off your mouth and untie one of your arms so you can eat, but your arm doesn’t lift. I can’t tell if it’s too weak from being tied up, or if you just want me to feed you the way I end up having to, holding one half of the sandwich and then the other up to your mouth, giving you lots of time to take bites.

When you get to the end of the sandwich, you kiss my hand, which I don’t really understand, but I suppose you were really hungry and might not be thinking straight. I’m so pleased with your silence that I untie your legs and help you onto your feet so you can use a real bathroom.

“See, it’s not so bad when you do what I say, is it?” I tell you when I’ve got you back in your place on the floor–-I did rinse your hair and face a bit, in the sink, and I gave you some lemonade to drink. I’m tying you up again, and once I finish I hold up a piece of tape to your mouth to see what you do. I think you’ll be quiet either way, so I don’t really care, but you push your head forward so I know you want me to stick the tape onto your mouth. “Good boy. See, it’s going to be all right here. You’re not so bad at what I want you to do.”

I start to stand up, but you suddenly duck your head to the side and sort of rub it against my arm, the way a cat rubs against a person’s leg. You have your eyes closed. The fuck? I look down at you, but you’ve gotten yourself on your side on the floor in a little trussed-up bundle and are on your way to falling asleep.

So, this is cool, because this stupid kid I picked up off the street is actually even more fucked in the head than I was looking for. He’s not just going along with it, he’s actually attached himself to me now. Depressing as all get-out, but lucky. He probably wouldn’t run away now even if he had the chance.

You’re setting yourself up to be used and abused, which is fine by me. I crouch down next to you for a minute and watch you sleep. Stupid, stupid piece of shit. To my own surprise, I push your dirty hair back and lean down to kiss your forehead, and in your sleep I feel you shiver and try to snuggle against me as best you can. It surprises me, like the other things you’ve done. But I’m in control, it won’t hurt, it doesn’t really matter. I’m in charge.


	6. Broken Dick Story But About a Cis Girl So No Actual Broken Dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: past noncon including child abuse, in-story dubcon
> 
> I wrote this in 2010 and I don't know how but I thought I invented the concept of "somebody is conditioned so that they need to be fucked/humiliated/dominated." A few years later I discovered the Trash Party and boy was I surprised.

This story takes place in an alternate medieval-ish fantasy universe. There isn’t much in the way of sexism or gender roles in this universe at all.

I think I’m originally from the real world but I’m stuck here or have chosen to live here, and I’ve been here a long time. I lead this band of people who do magic, or save people, or try to bring down the government. It doesn’t matter. One of the people I’ve worked with the longest is extremely talented at something useful, and doing that is her function in the group.

Let’s say she’s a blacksmith. She started training at a really young age, and making armor and weapons is both an obsession and something she seems to do effortlessly. I have a lot of respect for the work she does and for her as a person, and someone who doesn’t know us would probably think we were close friends. But despite getting along well and spending a lot of time with her, I don’t feel like she’s ever been close to me, or wanted me to know her very well.

One night when we’re drunk, I make a move on her and she politely rejects me. Or maybe it was someone else who made the move, but I end up realizing that in the time we’ve known each other I’ve never known her to show any interest in anyone. She can see I’m confused, and she tries, uncomfortably, to explain why she isn’t and can’t be interested. She uses a word about herself that I don’t know.

After asking around, I find out that the word refers to a particular kind of apprentice who is also a sex slave. The apprentice’s normal development is altered (through punishments and rewards, and maybe magic) so that they revolve around the desires of their master.

If you start around puberty, you can make them so focused on pleasing you that it becomes a basic physical need. To the extent that they develop any sexual interests or attractions of their own, these are damaged and incomplete-–a person of this type might be able to have a crush on someone, but would never be able to masturbate to orgasm when thinking about that person, or perform sexually with them. A lot of them can’t orgasm at all.

The person who tells me this is surprised that I ever would have met someone in that situation. Officially, apprenticeships are five or ten years long, but these particular apprentices can’t bring themselves to leave. They stay with their master for the rest of his life, and then take over the business when he dies.

Over time my friend tells me about it herself. She came to her master when she was twelve, and she was required to be constantly available to him and his friends. Food was associated with sex-–first he would fuck her before she ate, or literally bent over the table as she was eating. Then she had to ask for food by initiating sex. As she got better at sex and at the trade she was learning, she was given privileges, like being allowed to wear clothes.

She wanted to have her own life, so when her apprenticeship was over, she forced herself to leave. For years she could barely stay alive because she was so paralyzed by homesickness and anxiety, but she fought through it. She has a gnawing longing to be fucked by her old master and his friends, even though she never got the slightest bit of enjoyment out of it. The feeling has gotten less powerful with time, but it never goes away.

Every day she penetrates herself with a dildo, as painfully and uncomfortably as possible. This is something she needs to do and it helps a lot, especially because she tends to become upset and nauseous if she tries to eat when she’s not sore. But she still has a constant sense of unease because ultimately, penetrating herself is not the same as really being used.

Even drunk, she’s very stoic about the whole thing. She just is never going to feel perfectly happy, and sex is not going to be part of her life. She has a level of freedom that most people with her history could never hope for, and she’s grateful for that.

A while after I learn all this, my friend gets put in jail. She beat someone up, or stole something and did so incompetently enough to get caught. She’s one of the only people I can count on not to do things like that, so I’m really annoyed. But I go to bail her out anyway.

By the time I find out where she is and am able to get there, she’s been incarcerated for days, and she is unrecognizable. Because she’s been restrained, she hasn’t been able to penetrate herself, and has broken down mentally to the point that she barely seems to register anyone’s in the room with her. Talking is out of the question. I’m told she was crying and screaming before, but she seems more or less spaced out now, though she still tears up from time to time.

I don’t know how much longer she can live this way–-of course she isn’t eating. I don’t even know if she can come back to herself from where she is now. I’m still mad at her for getting arrested, both because of how it affects our whole group, and because she had to have known this would happen.

I do the only thing I can think of to do. I try untying her so she can do it herself, but she just makes a gesture that I can’t even tell for sure is intentional. I think she might be too weak to control her muscles well enough to penetrate herself, or even understand what she needs. Or maybe she is just too broken down to be able to do something to herself that she knows will hurt.

She can’t ask me to fuck her, but I know she needs me to, so I fuck her. It is rape. She struggles, even though her movements are weak and most of her body is still restrained, so she doesn’t have a chance at fighting me off. I don’t know if she doesn’t understand what I’m doing, or if she doesn’t want her friend to see her like this, or if she understands everything and doesn’t want to live like this anymore. Maybe she got herself arrested in the first place because she wanted it to be over.

I don’t care, though. I’m not really thinking about all this anyway–-she needs to be raped, so I hold her hands down, and I hurt her as much as I can.

She shows signs of improvement immediately, but she isn’t back to normal right away. I decide not to bail her out for a few more days because she wouldn’t want anyone to see her like this and figure out her history. I go in every day to fuck her, and she seems to understand she needs it. She lifts her hips to make it easy for me. She lets me feed her. The first time she talks, it’s to give me detailed instructions on how to hurt her more. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

Eventually I bail her out and we go back to our normal life. We don’t talk about what happened, and she is distant with me. We spend some time together but I often feel she’s avoiding me. I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see me again, but it’s not as simple as that. I’m almost sure she sneaks into my room at night. Sometimes I catch her staring at me. She doesn’t seem ill, or anything, but she just seems different.

Through a combination of detective work and research, I realize that I’ve rewritten her hard drive, as it were. Now that I’ve provided what she needs, she longs for me to take ownership of her. It’s more sincere, but also even more uncomfortable, because she genuinely was friends with me before and because I have her best interests at heart. A part of her is almost in love with me, in a way she couldn’t love the man she was apprenticed to. She’s avoiding me, but she finds my presence so comforting that she can’t help sneaking into my room at night and sleeping on the floor at the foot of my bed.

I tell her to come to my room and talk to me about this-–the sneaking around. I don’t tell her that I know what it’s about. She acts normal and comes up with some shady but non-sexual excuse for what she was doing. I pretend to believe her but tell her that as her leader, I need to take disciplinary action.

I tell her to take her clothes off, and I start whipping her. In our society this isn’t a completely unheard of way to punish someone who works for you, but I’ve never done anything like that to her or anyone else. She tries to ignore that knowledge. At some point I drop the strap and come closer and touch her. She still acts normal. She tries to believe this is just part of her punishment.

I walk around to her front. I kiss her, and start walking her backwards to the bed. For a minute she still tries to act like this is part of the punishment–-her kissing is mechanical–-but I smack her ass and for some reason that flips the switch she’s trying desperately to hold in place. She melts in my arms, going so limp I’m surprised she can manage the last few steps. I lay her down on the bed. She’s crying tears of relief as I squeeze and slap her body, but she still tries, weakly, to fight me when I start forcing my fingers inside her cunt. Her eyes are huge, though. She’s staring at me, hoping against hope I will give her a reason she doesn’t have to be ashamed of letting me do this for her.

I think she is so fucking smart. I could never do what she’s done, live through what she has, and part of why it turns me on so much that she needs to be treated like this is the fact that she is so strong and so brave but still turns into a pathetic little girl who needs to be fucked. I love the way this feels for her–-I love how ashamed she is, how she hoped that I would never see her like this. She can’t reconcile the two halves of herself. I can, and I love it.

I kiss her again. I tell her to stay still, that she needs it, that I like that she needs it. She doesn’t take it in, but she lets me penetrate her with a few fingers. She can’t or won’t ask outright, but I can tell from her face and her impatient rocking that it doesn’t hurt enough. I force my whole hand inside her, not giving her time to prepare, and she almost screams. I smile at her affectionately. She starts crying again.

It takes a few times before she can say it out loud. “Please, I need to be on my knees on the floor.” “I need something bigger than your hand, something that hurts more.” When she starts asking me to fuck her in the ass without lube, I know she really loves me. She doesn’t come–-she wasn’t made that way–-but sometimes she shivers, sometimes afterwards she wants me to hold her, she presses her torn, naked body against mine like she’s trying to hide inside me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote, pretty much.


	7. Brainfog Interlude

I wanted to talk bad about you softly, with my hands in your pockets, slurring my words like I do when I’m really tired and can hardly stand up (throwing my arm around you, leaning, making you practically carry me down the street). I put all my stuff in your jacket and make you keep track of it—phone, wallet, keys. How could you have been so stupid as to lose my keys? Can you just answer my phone for me, since all my words rush together in imperceptible clumps—just pretend to be me, I don’t know. You’ll figure it out. I thought you were supposed to be smart. Hey. Look at me. Do you think you’re smart?

Oh, I see how it is, I would say quietly—slumping against you on the train and mumbling dumb and unkind things in your ear, clawing your waist, when you’re writing my texts for me—you think you’re smarter than me, don’t you. You think you’re better than me.

You think you should be the one doing this to me, I’d say if I was feeling brave, loose, walking on sunshine sort of—calm and loved and tucked in with you on this kind of skin-to-skin, firsthand level. I’d be wrapped around you, looking you in the face when I can bear it, otherwise lowering my sunglasses so they push painfully into your neck when I rest my head on your shoulder. And I do that a lot, because I’m so tired I can barely keep my head up.

You think you’re smarter than me, I wanted to tell you, taking your closed hand in mine and hanging on with my nails—knowing you could win any card game, you could get the drop on me super easily, I couldn’t resist anything anyone tried to pull. You think you can take me? You think you’re winning? And you would say no.

You want to hurt me? I would ask, and you would say no with your eyes peeled and panicked looking, like it’s blasphemous, which I’d really enjoy. You want to fuck me? Definitely not, you’d say. You would snuggle yourself back into the case of my stinging body, clumsily looped around you, the way I like it. You would settle along me with purposeful limpness.


End file.
